


The Lady and the Tramp

by Niitza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coda, Crack, Elitist!Toni, Episode Related, F/M, Fluff, Hobo!Sam, Humor, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Men of Letters, Professor!Cas, Romantic Comedy, Season/Series 12, Suburbia, Unresolved Sexual Tension (onesided), hunter husbands, hunter!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: In which Toni Bevell's normal, organized life is thrown for a loop by the sudden arrival of Sam Winchester, hobo.Or: In which I make up for canon by writing canon-inspired AU!codas, at Toni Bevell's expense for the time being because how dare she torture Sammy. Also, Dean & Cas are totally gay married.





	1. First Sightings

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly 12x01 let me with too many feels and I am dealing with them by writing an AU where nothing hurts (especially not Sammy's poor feet). I don't know how far I'll go with this but the idea is to write one chapter per week as a reaction to / a cracky AU adaptation of said week's episode (or at least part of its content). I hope you'll have fun reading it!
> 
>  **Warnings:** A poor innocent dog gets hit by a car in this chapter, but survives. Always look carefully before pulling out of your driveway.

If asked to name one of her strengths, for instance in the event of a job interview, Toni Bevell wouldn't hesitate for a second and reply: her organization skills.

One might wonder why she even bothered to ponder about arguments that would ensure her being hired, given the generous salary, level of responsibility and career perspectives which her current job granted her. But that was exactly what she meant by 'organization skills': it was always best to be prepared for any and all eventuality. Besides, even if most of her superiors acknowledged and respected her abilities, her director was a creep, and she wouldn't hesitate much in dumping him if she ever got an offer in another office of the Agency's Central Midwest branch, preferably one that had at least one woman on the board of directors.

So yes, Toni Bevell was Organized. She had to be, to raise a son as a single mother while holding a high responsibility job with long and sometimes unexpected hours without neglecting her health nor her modest social life. And she did so beautifully.

It didn't mean that things always ran smoothly. She had her fair share of difficulties. Nannies whom she could trust to properly watch over her little boy, for instance, were few and far between, most of them disappearing off to college out of state within a year or two. And while Toni appreciated the confirmation that she was an excellent judge of character and that there was no keener eye than hers to pick out talent, she would've appreciated it even more if they'd shown their gratefulness at being singled out as worthy by staying in Lawrence instead of shooting off to New York or Boston or Chicago as soon as the opportunity arose. Kansas University was a perfectly adequate college when it came to undergraduate studies - Toni knew, she'd made sure of it, her son's options for nearby higher education had been one of the items on the long list of criteria she'd used to decide where she'd ask to be transferred.

Another inconvenience was her creep of a boss, who kept getting it into his head to try and blackmail her, either by dangling the promise of a raise or by waving the threat of withholding a case she wanted, in the hopes of obtaining some… _favors_. As if that had ever or would ever work.

And sometimes her struggles had nothing to do with the people she knew. Sometimes it was simply those small bothersome hitches which happened even on the smoothest journey, which didn't mean a thing individually, but which could accumulate to the point of becoming unbearable. But no matter how much she sometimes felt like she was fraying at the edges, she always kept going, and prevailed. She was the most resilient of them all. As stated before, Organized was her middle name, and there was nothing organization couldn't overcome.

 

*

 

One of such Cumbersome Times, as she called them, started one morning in the middle of October. School had started a little over a month ago, the leaves were starting to turn, and Toni was about to drive her son to school. Once she had checked that she had her briefcase for work and asked her baby boy to make sure that he had his backpack, his lunch and was correctly buckled in, she started backing out of her driveway, glancing left and right in case any vehicle was coming up on their quiet street.

What she didn't expect was to feel and hear her car bump against something. The collision was followed by a muffled mixture between a yap and a whimper.

She stopped the car at once.

"What was that?" her son asked.

"Stay in the car, darling," she instructed before stepping out herself. She was already expecting a scene which she didn't want her impressionable little boy to witness.

And it was: behind her car, on the sidewalk, a dog was lying on its side, panting. A dog which she hadn't noticed, because she hadn't expected there to be a dog, because _no one on their quiet street owned a dog_.

"Did you kill him?" she heard a wobbly, fearful voice behind her ask.

"I told you to stay in the car," she said sternly. "But no, I didn't kill it."

It was quite obvious however that the dog was in too much pain to stand back up on its own.

"Get back in the car," she ordered, already trying to figure out how to pick up the animal without causing it too much pain. Being seen as a Pet Torturer by her own son was _not_ part of The Plan. "We have to bring him to the veterinary office, and I don't want you to be late for school."

Which is why she dropped her son off first, despite his protests.

 

*

 

Fortunately, the veterinary told her that the dog only suffered from a broken leg; it was also tattooed and registered, which meant that they'd be able to find and contact its owner. Toni declared that she'd pay for everything, left her information to receive the bill, and so could put the whole incident behind her before she'd even reached her office.

She didn't put it entirely out of her mind, though - she was far too organized for that. Which is why she was much more careful the following day when backing out of her driveway, watching out for any suicidal pet.

She didn't see any dog or cat. However, she caught sight of a jogger. A man, tall, very tall, with the ugliest grey track suit she had ever seen - which didn't quite deter the attention from his shapely behind or the elasticity of his stride. He was running along the opposite side of the street, and as she watched he passed her car and came to a stop two houses down. There he picked up the mail in the box and walked up the path, flicking his disgustingly overgrown, sweaty hair back from his forehead with a jerk of the head to better see the envelopes he was flipping through. He reached the door, opened it and disappeared inside.

"Mom?" Toni heard her son ask, and snapped back to the present situation, only to realize that she was now almost a whole minute behind schedule.

Being late for the second time in as many days was Not Acceptable. She'd have to make up for it on the drive from her boy's school to her office.

Still, she checked again that no pet was loitering on the sidewalk before pulling out. A second accident definitely Would Not Do.

 

*

 

Thing was, Toni had never seen that man before. She would be the first one to admit that she wasn't the most neighborly inhabitant on their street, but she knew every single one of the people living there - even old Marv, whom no one liked, and Chuck Shurley, who rarely, if ever, left his home. After all, a large part of being organized rested on always being perfectly aware of the workings and changes in your surroundings.

The man was definitely a newcomer. However, Toni knew for a fact that there hadn't been any moves in or out of the neighborhood as of late. So the house which the man had entered was still the home of their very own Friendly Neighborhood Gays, the Winchesters. The latest notable event pertaining to them had been their cleaning the house from roof to basement over the weekend, garage and cars - or the monstrosities they called cars - included, in preparation for the upcoming visit of Mrs. Winchester - an Event if there was one in that household.

Toni didn't know much else, beyond what was strictly necessary. As stated before, she wasn't neighborly. The Winchesters had already been married and living on the street when she had arrived, well-established and well-liked, if only as a local curiosity people had decided to be proud of because Being So Tolerant made them feel better about themselves. Castiel was a professor at Kansas University, which she'd found out when she'd attended one of his conferences; it had been for work, but the man had managed to make a presentation that was both lively and extremely compelling despite it being about a newly discovered fragment of the Old Testament written in Old Aramaic. As for Dean, she had no idea what he did. Given the type, crass and boisterous with a clear taste for beer, pizza, and muscle cars, she would feel safe betting on him being a mechanic or a repairman - something that didn't require any higher education.

(If she had the time, Toni would wonder how those two vastly different men had ended up together and, apparently, happy. But she didn't.)

In any case, what mattered was, she knew them both, and she was pretty sure that neither Dean nor Castiel were wont to grow a foot and a mane overnight and start going jogging in a morning in a pair of threadbare sweats ready to fall apart. Even a month wouldn't be enough for them to reach that point. As uncouth as he may act Dean was actually well-kept, shaved regularly and wore clean, if simple, clothes; Castiel, on the other hand, made up for his permanent five o'clock shadow with his suits. Point was, neither of them would ever let himself or the other sink so low as to transform into some hobo with overlong hair and an unkempt beard, who apparently couldn't afford the drabbest of clothes at Goodwill.

But a hobo Toni had seen. Herein lay the whole mystery.

 

*

 

Toni would've happily forgotten all about the man, though, because as mysterious and bothersome as his appearance had been, it didn't matter in the slightest for her or her son. Or at least, it shouldn't.

Except that she saw him the following day too. And the day after that. And the day after that. He would run past her car just as she and her son were leaving in the morning, regular like clockwork, always the same. The only thing that changed was his outfit: every day he wore a different one, always more awful and rundown than the last.

He wasn't doing anything _wrong_ , per se, unless you considered his woeful haircut or the broadness of his shoulders a crime - which Toni was tempted to. But she _noticed_ him, every time, felt arrested, every time. Distracted. Appalled.

Yes, that was it, she was _appalled_ , at the man's general level of neglect, at his _everything_. It was bad enough that Toni had to bear Miss Chambers from the house opposite hers throwing a party every other week when her dad was away; she did _not_ appreciate having to deal with vagrants too. This neighborhood was supposed to be nice and kid friendly, for Heaven's sake.

She pondered complaining about it to her friend and colleague Laura Watt when she came by for a cup of tea on Saturday afternoon. It wasn't often that they both found the time to meet, especially since Toni's promotion had severed their partnership at work. Although they still belonged to the same branch of the Agency, they weren't assigned to the same office anymore and had no way to communicate whenever Laura's job took her to the field, which was often. As a consequence, any meeting they managed to have was precious.

They caught up on everything - but on work first, of course. Toni complained about her creep of a boss, Laura complained about Campbell, whose methods she found disappointingly and irritatingly unprofessional but who still managed to remain their top hunter in the state, which meant they called on him more often than not and that Laura, as one of their top agents, ended up being his handler more often than not.

Once all was said and done and vented work-wise, Toni hesitated. She could bring up the man, she knew, as all she had to say about him was negative, and complaining and sniping about things was half the point of their meetings. But mentioning him in this context, even in passing, was to admit that he was a bother, was giving him a power over Toni and the turn of her week to which he had no rights. He should've been nothing but a minor inconvenience, barely noticed and forgotten in the blink of an eye.

Yet she couldn't let it go. And she couldn't fathom _why_.

She needn't have worried, though, for before she could come to a decision one way or another the very subject of her dithering came running down the street, much to her dismay. Having gotten up later than she did during the week, she had _hoped_ that she'd missed him. But apparently she couldn't get a bloody break, could she?

This time he was wearing a white t-shirt, almost translucent with sweat, frayed salmon pink shorts and a cracked neon yellow headband to hold his hair back. As Toni - and Laura, she realized - watched, he reached the Winchester house, where he paused to uncap the water bottle he was holding and take several long gulps, Adam's apple bobbing up and down on his glistening throat. There was some water left in the bottle afterwards; taking off his headband, he threw his head back to pour it over himself. The liquid spilled down his hair, sticking it to his forehead, it ran down his cheeks, his neck, reached his torso where it soaked through his t-shirt, making it cling to his chiseled chest even more and—

"Well," Laura said, "that is offensive."

Toni blinked, and remembered that she wasn't alone. She barely refrained from blurting an utterly undignified: " _Right_?"

Meanwhile, the man was shaking his head like a dog ridding its pelt of excess water.

"I kind of wish I could shoot him in the leg and tie him up in my basement," she said between clenched teeth while she glared. That way he wouldn't be able to ruin her day by jogging past her house anymore. Obviously.

Laura nodded with a thoughtful hum. "I see what you mean." She threw Toni a glance. "I'd be happy to help, too."

"That won't be necessary," Toni assured. "He'll probably be gone soon."

Or at least, she hoped so. By now she'd guessed that he was a friend of the Winchesters', maybe a family member (that cousin no one ever talked about?) who'd come for a visit. It'd last a week, two at the most.

And then Toni's life could go back to normal.

 

*

 

On Sunday, Toni Bevell tended to her garden, and especially to the rose bushes she'd planted along the edges of her property. It was the one time in the week which she had entirely to herself: her son was inside with his cello tutor and they knew not to disturb her except in case of emergency. The street was usually quiet and, soothed by the rhythm of checking every stem, cutting off wilted flowers and plucking dead leaves while surrounded by the fragrance for which she'd chosen that rose species specifically, Toni could relax.

Or at least, she could _usually_. This time her peace of mind was disturbed by a regular noise which started at the end of the street and came closer and closer and _closer_ , a combination of shuffling and slapping that rapidly got on her nerves.

She looked up. And of course, _of course_ , it was the Winchesters' guest. He was wearing nearly appropriate clothes this time, a huge blue button down and dark cut-off jeans. A welcome change - if you didn't take his choice of footwear into account.

He was wearing flip-flops.

Toni hated flip-flops. In her opinion, they were the concentration of all that was wrong with America.

Besides, who wore flip-flops in darn October?

That was when she noticed the dog hopping at the man's side, a golden retriever with its left hind leg in a splint. The exact same dog which she'd hit on Monday.

Really, she should have known.

"Nice specimen, isn't he?"

Toni almost startled and glanced over to see her neighbor, Linda Tran, looking at the man with an appreciative look on her face.

Clearly she and Toni didn't have the same standards.

"Mrs. Tran," Toni said as a greeting, because she might not be neighborly, but she was polite. Then she realized she could seize the occasion: as the head of their neighborhood watch, Mrs. Tran knew everything about everything that ever happened on their street. She was therefore a precious well of information. Also, she liked to gossip.

"Do you know who that is?" Toni asked. "I've been seeing him around all week."

"Oh, that's Sam Winchester," Mrs. Tran replied. "Dean's brother."

"Really?" They looked nothing alike.

"Yes, he came down here for Mrs. Winchester's birthday."

"But isn't that in December?" Toni vaguely remembered something about Mrs. Winchester's coming over to celebrate her birthday with her son and son-in-law every year being the reason why their house was always the first and most grandly decorated one on their street for Christmas. As it was for Halloween. And Easters. And the 4th of July - or Summer Solstice, Toni was never sure. She really hated that last one, though, and would've sniffed at the couple for even taking part in these ridiculous unofficial competitions between neighbors over holiday decorations, if discovering theirs at the start of each new season didn't make her son insanely happy. But it did, so she refrained.

"Yes, it is," Mrs. Tran was saying approvingly. "But from what I gather, he plans on sticking around for a while."

Oh, no.

"He does?"

"Yes. He's been drifting around these past few years, finding himself. Now I guess he wants to try and figure out where to go from there - and, well, crashing in his brother's guest room is as good a starting point as any, don't you think?"

She looked up at Toni, obviously expecting a nod of agreement. Toni could only stare in horror.

Oh _no_.

 

*

 

[TBC]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is the tumblr post](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com/post/151893503851/coda-fic-the-lady-and-the-tramp-1) if you'd like to reblog :) And [here is my tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you want to cry about season 12 and Mary Winchester. Also, don't hesitate to [ask more](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com/ask) about the fic or the universe because I've been having lots of fun world building but can't be sure yet what will end up in the actual fic :P


	2. First words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this week's episode (12x02) I feel the need to make clear that the onesided tag on the Sam/Toni tag is here to stay. There won't be a romantic relationship between the two. I'll be happy to give Toni a redemption act in which she realizes the errors of her ways and changes for the best - or at least decides to try to. But given the gross content of the ep I cannot and will not ship her with Sam.
> 
> I will, however, condemn her to eternal sexual frustration over him. Seems appropriate.

_No_.

The word resonated throughout Toni's mind the second she woke up that morning - the second she opened her eyes and became aware of what exactly she'd just been dreaming about.

She remained lying on her side for a while, as if not moving an inch would make the memory of the dream go away. Or, better, make the dream not have happened at all.

It didn't work.

Her alarm started ringing. She blinked again. Clearly her only option was to get up and move on with her day.

She sat up, grimaced at the tacky mess she felt in her underwear, yet didn't rush as she slid out of bed and walked to the bathroom. No matter what, she would keep her cool and dignity.

She didn't dawdle either, though, and was soon in the shower. After all, as her supervisor used to say during the year following her initiation, there were two ways of ensuring something didn't happen: one, prevent it from happening altogether; two - if one couldn't be achieved -, properly dispose of any and all evidence and witnesses, until it looks like nothing happened at all.

And nothing had indeed. Because Toni Bevell did not have dreams. Or at least not _That Kind_ of dreams. She just did not. And if she did, they certainly wouldn't involve any individual about whom she knew next to nothing apart from the fact that they had an alarmingly faulty understanding of what personal hygiene meant, or what counted as a proper attire, or—

A flash of memory darted through her mind - but could you call it a memory if it was nothing but the product of your unruly subconscious? -, a blurred mixture of image and sensation: the sight of a hairy chest, the feeling of two strong arms tightening around her, the brush of a beard on the inside of her thigh… She felt a spike of heat shoot from her belly downwards and—

She wrenched the shower handle to the right, making the water jump from pleasantly warm to ice cold.

_No_.

 

*

 

The Incident, while being put immediately and firmly behind her, turned out to be useful in that it confirmed how imperative and therefore foresighted it had been for her to implement the plan which she'd started to hatch at the end of the previous week and perfected after the horrendous news she'd heard from Mrs. Tran on Sunday. However, she shouldn't have needed it: she was, after all, organized, and her mind indescribably sharp.

The plan was simple, too - as all good plans are. All Toni had had to do in terms of preparations had been to set her alarm clock - and her son's - fifteen minutes earlier, without changing anything else about the content or rhythm of their morning routine.

Her baby boy was not happy about it, of course. Like all children he was a creature of habit, bore obligations and constraints best when used to them, when expecting them. He also profoundly disliked any alteration to his daily schedule - especially since this one deprived him of fifteen minutes of sleep, or rather had forced him to go to bed fifteen minutes earlier the evening previous.

Toni hadn't been moved then by his complaints and pleas; and she would not be moved now, neither by his sulky moue nor by the whine he threaded through his voice whenever he spoke. She marched him through the usual steps, waking him up and going down to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast while he dressed himself, giving him twenty minutes to eat once he'd sat down at the table then sending him back up to brush his teeth and his hair while she finished and packed his lunch. Once he came back down they checked that his backpack contained all the things that he would need that day, and then they were off.

It was all worth it, too: leaving fifteen minutes earlier meant that when Toni took the car out of the garage, the street was entirely deserted. Or, at least, that it was devoid of any jogger in ratty sweatpants.

But as it turned out, the rest of the Winchester household was already awake too: when Toni checked the rearview mirror, she saw their Friendly Neighborhood Gays standing beside their behemoth of a black car, sharing a goodbye kiss. Which was… unusual.

It wasn't the parting in itself. Whatever Dean's job was (mover? truck driver?), it seemed to frequently call him away for two to three days at a time, sometimes more; Castiel for his part traveled out of state from time to time, to hold a conference at another university.

No, what was out of the ordinary was the kiss itself. The Winchesters were accepted here as a gay married couple, were liked even, but it needn't be said that their welcome was tenuous and rested on the tacit agreement that they wouldn't _flaunt_ it. The two seemed to understand that, or maybe they just weren't very demonstrative as a couple, because while they usually stuck close to each other, could hold whole conversations just by sharing looks and often moved as a single unit, it was very rare to see them touch, let alone kiss.

Yet here they were, kissing. Dean was leaning back against his car, his hands cradling Castiel's hips, while Castiel stood tucked between his husband's legs, one hand on Dean's shoulder, the other cupping Dean's jaw. Despite it being a goodbye it was unhurried, deep and almost lazy, but also tender, intimate most of all, something to savor and remember long after it was over. Seeing it Toni felt acutely how long it had been since she'd shared such a kiss with someone, with anyone. She even found herself wondering if she'd ever _known_ such a kiss, and felt a stab of envy. At the same time, a tiny part of her mind perked up, curious, and pondered how Dean's brother would—

Except that no, it didn't. _She_ didn't. Not at all.

And she wasn't one of these people who spied on their neighbors either, she firmly added in her mind, and pulled out on the street.

By then Dean and Castiel had parted and Dean was smiling, maybe at something his husband had said, straightening up as Castiel stepped back. When he turned to open his car door Toni glanced back at her son to make sure that he hadn't seen their neighbors' display - she would've done the same had it been a man and a woman; Toni Bevell was not homophobic, but there were some things she did not consider proper for a child to see. Her baby boy was sitting with his forehead pressed against the window, sullenly staring through it, but fortunately he was seated on the opposite side of the car and therefore looking in entirely the wrong direction.

Still, she didn't linger, just in case.

She returned the wave Castiel sent her when she drove past, though. No matter what, she knew to remain polite.

 

*

 

Despite that small hitch - which hopefully would not be repeated - the plan had worked flawlessly: there had been no sighting of any bum running down the street to ruin her morning. Toni would've felt victorious, and, given that said plan kept working as the week progressed, the feeling would only have strengthened - if it hadn't been mitigated by two things:

One, even if she hadn't seen The Man - 'Sam', she guessed -, she was still - _somehow_ \- thinking about him.

Two, when she arrived at work that first morning, it was to find out that the London Chapterhouse - or, as they liked to call themselves, the Main Branch - had sent over one of their agents for a surprise inspection. Because no matter how large and independent the American branch, a. k. a. the Agency, had grown over the past fifty years, no matter how many more cases it handled, how many more agents and hunters it managed, how much more results it yielded, it was still considered by the Old Men abroad as a measly, somewhat unruly and dissatisfying subordinate.

Toni hated those surprise inspections. But two seconds spent with the man who'd been sent this time around were enough to let her know that she'd hate this one especially.

"Call me Mick," he said with a genial smile, his tone perfectly modulated for her to realize what he was doing. _Hear how informal and relaxed and non-sophisticated I sound_ , it said. _Notice how aware I am of how you do things around here. See how well I manage to get down to your level_.

Toni resented being lumped together with the local hires and, worse, the hunters. Being disparaged in such a way had _not_ been part of the agreement when she'd transferred out of the UK.

It was all the more infuriating that she knew - and suspected 'Mick' knew too - that this so-called evaluation was an exercice in futility. 'Mick' wasn't here to produce a positive report, yet no matter how negative his conclusions would be they wouldn't change a thing, just like all the ones before them. Toni hadn't been here for long but she certainly knew that.

She could even give 'Mick' a preview of what his report would contain already. There'd be some criticism about the general lack of rigor in their offices, followed by some questioning over the fact that no effort was being made to control the borders and thus prevent monsters from moving into the US or between states, while so much money was squandered in some exceedingly risky _and_ costly rehabilitation program for non-homicidal vampires and the likes; it would then segue into more general complaints about the way monsters were dealt with, and from there into a list of grievances about the way _hunters_ were dealt with - because the Agency was far too lax in its handling of them, obviously. Everyone knew that hunters were all nothing but uncultured swines, dumb yet dangerous apes, brutes and killers who didn't know right from wrong, who could barely hold a gun properly, and as such they shouldn't get a say; it was the Men of Letters' duty to keep them on a tight leash so that they couldn't do any harm - and how difficult could it be to bring them to heel?

At which point Toni would refer 'Mick' to her counterpart on the hunters' side, Bobby Singer. The inspector would then be able to see for himself how difficult it could indeed be. Because while she agreed with 'Mick' on principle when it came to the place hunters should occupy, after nearly two years in the US she'd come to realize that things here did not and could not work the way they worked in the UK. Bobby Singer was a perfect example as to why.

The man was a grump, and a drunk, and impossible to work with - but he was impossible to work _without_. He was the only one whom the hunters kept updated when they changed their phone number or address, which happened more often than not and meant that, without him, the Men of Letter would soon be deprived of all their contacts in the hunting community. What's worse, no hunter would ever go where he or she was needed, or do anything the Agency asked of them, if the order came directly from there. It had to go through Singer first, had to obtain his grudging seal of approval. In short, he was a necessary evil. All the hunters in America were.

It had taken Toni two years to understand that, painful as it was. Whether the Old Men, in their cushy leather chairs, in their cosy parlors, in their grand manors on their small island, would ever come to the same realization or not, she couldn't be sure.

But she had her doubts.

 

*

 

So that was the whole week botched up. But Toni endured. She endured all the more easily that her plan, at least, kept working and guaranteed her mornings free of indecent drifters. Plus, no more unwelcome dreams tried to worm themselves into her mind during her sleep.

It only made sense, therefore, that the day 'Mick' _finally_ announced that his inspection was done and that he would be returning to London that afternoon was the day Toni saw Sam again.

It was Friday evening. She'd just climbed out of her car, sighing in relief at the week being over and that annoying maggot of a man being _gone_ , when she heard and saw another vehicle slow down and stop in front of the Winchester house.

A middle-aged woman stepped out, her hair a mixture of blond and grey. Before she'd even slammed her car door shut, Sam came rushing out of the house, hopping down the porch steps and bouncing towards her - despite the fact that he was _still_ wearing his darned flip-flops. Once he'd reached the visitor he carefully wrapped his arms around her and squeezed gently. The height difference between them was stark but the embrace didn't look awkward as it was returned. On the contrary it was sweet, and warm, and tender, and yet what caught Toni's attention first and foremost was how it made Sam's arms bulge and she remembered—

No, she didn't. She snapped her eyes away, strode into her house and clicked the door decisively shut behind her.

 

*

 

Things came to a head on Saturday.

Toni was going over some reports, something she rarely needed to do on a weekend as she was usually efficient and organized enough to be finished with her workload come Friday afternoon. But the surprise inspection had thrown a wrench into her usual work schedule.

So here she was, needing to catch up. But even though it was nothing complicated - mostly reports on recently closed cases (Campbell had expedited his latest ghost with an efficiency that Laura, her handler once more, had noted but wasn't naive enough to hope would last) mixed with a couple files about ongoing investigation which were proving more difficult than planned and several notes on recent activities that might have supernatural causes and thus warrant their intervention - she couldn't concentrate.

The reason was simple: one of their neighbors - she knew who it was - was playing music, and even though it wasn't _loud_ , per se, it was loud enough for her to hear it in her living-room with her windows closed. And for some reason she couldn't ignore it.

She tried, though.

It didn't work.

"I'll be right back, darling," she told her son, who was doing his homework at the table. She didn't bother putting on a coat or a scarf, only took her keys and walked directly to the Winchester house.

Of course, Sam was the one to open the door.

Somehow, Toni hadn't taken that possibility into account. She wasn't _prepared_.

Her irritation sparked all the brighter.

"Can I help you?" Sam asked, and up close she saw that his eyes were brown, the look in them open and gentle. He leaned against the doorjamb, huge and relaxed in a way that made her acutely aware of how tense her own posture was.

She gritted her teeth.

"Yes," she said, clipped. "I need you to turn the music down."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "The music?" he said, glancing back as if he couldn't very well hear it.

"Yes. It's disturbing me in my work."

"… You live on the other side of the street, right?" Sam said slowly. The expression on his face had turned puzzled.

Toni kept her chin up, her voice firm. "Yes."

"I have a hard time seeing how it can... I mean, it's not _that_ loud."

"Maybe," she conceded. "But it's loud enough. And not everyone enjoys that kind of… music." She hesitated long enough on the word to make it clear how little she thought the name was deserved.

Sam blinked at her, eyebrows still up. "It's Led Zeppelin," he said, like it should mean something.

It very much didn't.

"I don't care if it's Lead Zeppelin or Iron Air Balloon," Toni said, feeling her anger rise. "I _demand_ you turn it down."

There was a short silence.

"Or?" Sam finally asked.

Toni, who hadn't expected that reaction - or, rather, _non_ -reaction -, still did not lose her composure. "Or I'll file a complaint."

Sam's lips twitched. "I would like to see you try," he said, not making any effort to hold back his amused smile.

That was when Toni remembered that she wasn't in England anymore, and that the expectations you could have when it came to policemen and their endeavors to uphold the law were not the same. She could only glare, lips pinched.

"Look, Lady," Sam said, smile fading as he straightened up, "the music is at a perfectly acceptable level, and my family is fully entitled to listening to what they please the way they please, and there is nothing you can do about it."

"Well, it might be difficult for you _or_ them to grasp, since it obviously isn't an activity with which any of you might be familiar, but _some people_ here are trying to read and I can't—"

"Wow," Sam interrupted her, looking incredulous. "You know what? Screw you."

And he closed the door, right in her face.

Toni seethed.

 

*

 

"Who was that?" Mom asked when Sam returned to the back porch.

"I don't know," he replied, sitting back down on the wooden boards, right beside Bones so he could scratch his ears. "Some stuck-up WASP whose life sounds _really_ sad." She'd even say she didn't like kittens, Sam would bet.

Tongue lolling to the side, Bones rolled onto his back, silently begging for a belly rub. Sam obliged with a grin.

Mom was not to be deterred. "And what did she want?"

"Nothing we could help her with," Sam replied diplomatically. A chuckle made him glance over towards where Dean was standing, firing up the grill - but obviously it wasn't Sam's quip that had amused him. He and Cas were in their bubble, Cas hovering over Dean's shoulder as if he could perch there. If asked he would probably say that he was just observing his husband's technique, striving to learn from the best. But beyond the fact that after years of marriage and so-called 'observation' Cas's cooking skills hadn't improved in the least, the thinness of the excuse was made obvious by how often Cas stopped looking at his husband's hands to nuzzle at his ear, drop a kiss on his nape or rest his cheek on his shoulder, eyes closed while his hands ran up and down Dean's sides.

He was like that whenever Dean came back from a hunt, especially when he returned a bit banged up. The fact that Dean's healing remained weirdly quick, as shown by how faded the bruise on his cheek already was, didn't matter. Dean didn't mind. Over the years he had perfected the art of moving around without ever bumping against Cas, even when they were sharing the same square meter. Now he leaned back against Cas's chest and listened to whatever Cas murmured in his ear with a smile.

Sam felt his grin widen. Seeing people happy always made him happy in turn, even more so when these people were his family. Given the look and smile on Mom's face, she felt the same.

In the kitchen, the kettle clucked, signaling that it had brought its water to a boil. Sam unfolded himself from the floor to go pour it into the teapot and take two mugs out of the cupboard. While he was in there he checked on the pie baking in the oven; it smelled divine, as did everything Dean made.

The tea was herbal and had to brew for about five minutes, so Sam returned to the porch. Yet when he passed the stereo, he found himself slowing down. He pursed his lips musingly.

Then, with a smirk, he turned the volume up.

 

*

 

[TBC]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is the tumblr post](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com/post/152264175416/coda-fic-the-lady-and-the-tramp-2), if you would like to reblog :)


	3. First Steps

The main reason why the Agency was still considered a subbranch of the London Chapter was that it obtained its funds from it. But since it strived to become more independent, it completed that income through various means. They created and sold protective charms, for instance—not that the people buying them always knew that they were getting the real deal—, or made some of their best investigators moonlight as PIs. But their most beneficial source of financing were the donations of a few people who were aware of the supernatural but had a vested interest in keeping its existence under wraps: politicians, army officers and security agency leaders, insurance company investors, old and wealthy witches, and even some people whom they'd saved in the past and who had wanted to show their appreciation through a monthly donation. The money thus gathered made it possible for the Agency to sometimes make some decisions the British branch wouldn't approve of, like financing rehabilitation programs for vampires or research on possible cures for lycanthropy.

To gather these donations, the Agency organized fundraisers in several main cities every year, on the winter solstice. The invitations were to go out two months in advance at the latest—that is to say, now. They were sent to their regular contributors and everyone who had ever given a little something, but also to people who'd ended up on the Men of Letters' radar and who they hoped might become one of their benefactors. In the latter case, though, the letter was to be delivered personally by a member of the Agency, if only to try and make it more… convincing.

These prospective sponsors were fewer by far than the workers whom the Agency had at its disposal. However, given that the fundraising campaign was a once-in-a-year occasion, there was no designated team for the deliveries. As a consequence, each American branch put a few of its members at the disposal of the federal office for about a week, either by selecting them at random, or by asking for volunteers, or by assigning it like they would any other mission.

The Central Midwest branch used the first method: random selection through one of the countless programs their IT team had come up with. It displeased more or less everyone. Such errands were rarely successful, which meant that half the office considered them a tedious waste of precious time and would've loved to never be chosen for it. The other half, on the contrary, saw them as a sort of paid holiday and kept complaining about not being given the chance to offer their services.

Toni belonged to the former half, of course. But she was right in the middle of a Cumbersome Time. Therefore she wasn't surprised when, on Monday, she open her email to find that she'd been summoned.

 

*

 

"So, who did you get?" Laura asked when she phoned her on her lunch break.

Toni sighed. "Rowena."

"Oh, dear."

The reaction wasn't surprising. Everyone had heard of Rowena—even Toni, who'd been in the United States for less than two years. She was an extremely powerful witch, probably the most powerful in America, if not in the world; most of her might and knowledge could be explained by how old she was, although no one knew exactly when she'd been born.

It also explained how she'd been able to gather such a fortune.

The Men of Letters had known of her for centuries, the London Chapter having been aware of her existence even before the Shift—not as a threat, though. Despite the fact that her magic seemed limitless, she preferred to stay out of the way, living her life quietly and grandly with nothing suspicious shadowing her steps, apart from a string of rich husbands who nevertheless seemed to have all indeed died of old age. She knew about the Men of Letters, of course, but wanted nothing to do with them.

Yet they tried, again and again, to have her take an interest.

Foolishly, Toni had hoped to be assigned someone whom the Agency was seeking out for the first time instead.

"Well," Laura said after a long silence, trying to sound consoling, "at least it's not the Starks."

Toni closed her eyes, and agreed.

 

*

 

It took her three whole days to determine in which of her countless mansions—because the witch wouldn't live in something as plebeian as a house—Rowena was currently residing.

Then she had to hastily arrange for someone to take care of her son while she was away. Fortunately, Mrs. Tran had a serious case of empty nest syndrome ever since her own son Kevin had left for Princeton.

 

* *

 

While there were many things that Castiel enjoyed about fall—the leaves turning in a riot of colors, the decorations, the smell of rain, Dean's homemade pumpkin pie—the chill that permeated the air and seeped into their home during the night wasn't one of them. It tugged him out of sleep that morning, making him clumsily bring his arm back under the covers and turn to snuggle up against his husband—except that he didn't find him.

His hand hitting the mattress startled him fully awake. His eyes blinking open confirmed it: he was alone in bed, which suddenly felt huge and cold.

He found Dean in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him. He wasn't drinking it, though. Instead he was staring into space, unmoving, unblinking, until he heard Castiel reach the doorway.

"Morning, sunshine," he said with a quick glance, a quick smile, neither of which were very good at hiding the preoccupied thoughts lurking underneath. "Coffee?"

"No, thank you," Castiel replied. He wrapped his robe tighter around himself and shuffled closer. "Everything alright?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," Dean said. "Just, you know." Another quick smile. "Weird dream."

Castiel pursed his lips. From the few of those Dean had ever shared with him he'd come to understand that what Dean called a 'weird dream' most people would call a nightmare.

It had probably been about Mary, too. She'd arrived not two days ago and it was almost automatic, by now, that such visits were preceded or followed by bad dreams where something happened to her. It was the same with Sam.

It was that kind of things that made Castiel wonder if hunting was the right career for Dean. He didn't seem bothered by what he often saw and fought, let horrors roll off his back like they were nothing, or like it paled in comparison to the good it meant he was doing. But there were still shadows lurking, just waiting for him to be vulnerable, asleep, to jump.

Yet at the same time, had Dean not been recruited by the Agency, he would still be a police officer and, anxious as he was, would still worry about the ones he loved. The only difference would be that his dreams would've showed them being killed by humans, instead of demons or rugarus. In any case, there wasn't much Castiel could do to help.

He didn't like that.

He let out a thoughtful sound and wrapped an arm around Dean from behind, resting his head on Dean's shoulder.

"You sure you don't want a cup?" Dean said, because he knew how useless Castiel was in a morning without it. "It's fresh."

"No," Castiel repeated. Dean felt warm against his cheek, his chest, and in that second Castiel wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in his arms. He'd return the embrace and kiss Dean until he forgot all his worries, until all his ghosts were chased away, until there was only them, and then he would—

He raised his head and murmured in Dean's ear: "I want you to come back to bed."

Dean turned his head to meet his eye. He was blinking owlishly, as he often did whenever Castiel propositioned him that blatantly.

Castiel couldn't help but smile.

He didn't need to ask twice.

 

*

 

Mary was starting to suspect that the bed in her son's guest bedroom was more comfortable than the one she had at home: three nights she'd been here and every time she'd woken up late into the morning after a long uninterrupted sleep. Or maybe it was just how cozy and welcoming everything felt around here. Her son wouldn't have it any other way.

Still yawning and rubbing her eyes, she reached the kitchen, and paused in the doorway when she found it empty. That was unusual: she was taking advantage of her week off to sleep in, but at this hour Dean and Castiel should already be up and almost all the way done with breakfast, even if she couldn't say for sure whether today was one of the days her son-in-law had to be at the university or not. Not that it mattered: contrary to what she'd been led to expect back when Dean had been a teenager, he'd grown up an early riser.

The plot thickened when she found fresh coffee in the pot, kept warm by the plate, and noticed a bowl of pancake batter on the counter. Beside it lay several slices of bacon in their wrapping and a carton of eggs, all waiting to be fried. Even the pan had been taken out of its cupboard. Only the cook was missing.

A half-drunk cup of coffee stood on the table. Mary stared at it, lips pursed. Someone had gotten up, readied all this, and then simply left? Or… gone back to bed.

She suddenly realized that she probably shouldn't go investigate.

She was pondering whether she should wait or get started on breakfast herself when she heard a series of small clicks accompanied by less regular soft bumps: Bones' paws hitting the floor as he limped up to her, his hind leg still in its cast. He looked up at her beseechingly until she started patting his head and scratching behind his ears, upon which he simply closed his eyes and reveled in the sensation.

Or at least, he did until he heard or smelled something that made him perk up and turn around with an excited whine. A second later the front door opened in a jangle of keys followed by heavy breaths: Sam had returned from his morning run.

By the time he reached the kitchen, Mary had poured him a glass of water, which she handed him with a cautious kiss, keeping her distance: she loved her boy, but he sweated like a pig. Fortunately, he'd realized that over the years and had learned to refrain from hugging other people in such moments. Well, apart from Bones, who didn't care and planted his head right into Sam's lap the second her son collapsed onto the ground beside the table—a leftover habit from his time spent in Nepal, or maybe Japan.

Mary fixed herself a cup of coffee and joined him, sitting on a chair. He was still breathing hard, and she frowned down at him: it sounded like he'd really pushed himself today.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, yup," Sam replied, and gulped down his whole glass in one go.

"Because you look like you haven't been jogging but running away from a cheetah."

Sam put his glass on the ground beside him and focused on rubbing Bones' head, who rolled to his side in ecstasy. "I'm okay," he said.

He was avoiding her gaze.

"Sam."

"I'm okay, I swear," Sam insisted. His hands had slowed down and he was now slowly but thoroughly caressing Bones, from the top of his skull to half-way down his back. He still wasn't looking up. "It's just, you know," he added after a while, "trying to figure things out. Turns out it's not that easy, you know?"

Mary should've suspected it was something like that. "It'll come to you," she said, and reached out a hand to pet his head, run her fingers through his lush long hair. "Take all the time you need."

Much like his dog Sam relaxed under her ministrations, leaning back against her chair, eyes closed. His head fell back until it rested on her knee.

"Yeah," he said. After a couple seconds of silence he went on: "It's just, there are so many possibilities. And I'm so used to doing whatever I feel like doing right here and now, knowing that once I get bored with it or feel like a change I can just take off, go do something else." He sighed. "But last winter was hard. I know I've been lucky up until now. It can't go on forever."

Mary doubted that: karma had always seem to favor her boy. But then, he always spread so much good around him, wherever he went. It was only fair.

"I can't roam forever," Sam said, "and I do want to try, you know: staying in one place, committing to one thing, for more than a little while. But what if I can't? What if I choose wrong?"

He opened his eyes, brow folding with faint anguish. Mary brushed her fingers against it to smooth it out and smiled when Sam glanced up at her. He smiled back, that wide, fond smile that reminded her so strongly of the little, nearly scrawny boy he'd once been.

Sometimes, when she saw him from afar, she was still surprised by how tall he'd grown.

"Whatever you decide, it doesn't have to be forever," she said. "If you don't like it, then you can always change, try something else."

"But I have to at least aim for a definite choice," Sam protested. "If I don't, how do I know I'm not still stuck doing what I've always done?"

"Well, up until now it seemed to make you happy," Mary said cautiously. It was the only thing that had made her worries bearable up until now, especially whenever she hadn't gotten word from him in months, or learned that he was at the other end of the world, so far away that neither she nor Dean could easily get to him if anything bad happened. That was why she'd always been endlessly grateful for the good luck that followed him everywhere; or maybe it was angels, watching over him.

"It did," Sam said. "But I'm not getting any younger and…" He briefly paused. "I miss you guys, when I'm away."

Mary smiled again, touched. "We miss you too," she said. "And we trust you to find what's best for you." She had no doubt that whatever it ended up being, he'd be able to do it. Her generous genius boy: he could do anything he put his mind to. She cupped his jaw in her hand, his overgrown beard prickling against her palm, and held his gaze. "And if you need any help figuring it out, we're here. Okay?"

Sam grinned, reassured. "Okay," he said, and squeaked when Mary teasingly ruffled his hair.

" _Seriously_?"

The snap made them look up, in time to see Dean striding into the kitchen, the flaps of his ratty robe streaming behind him.

"You forget how to use a chair now?" he growled as he reached the counter. "I swear, between that and the fact that you apparently don't shower or shave anymore, it's a miracle no one's caught you and dragged you to the nearest shelter, claiming they've found a stray mutt."

He lit the fire under the pan and started breaking eggs into a bowl. Upstairs, Mary could hear the shower start.

"Hey, that's an idea," Sam said, straightening up—but when she asked what he meant, he just shrugged with a grin.

 

*

 

Halloween was coming closer and Dean had Plans.

He'd taken the week off. He wasn't even on call, so there would be no emergency call, not even if there was a ghoul outbreak in Marshall or the Agency finally pinned down that vampires' nest they'd been looking for near Aberdeen. If so, Jo or someone else would take care of it. Dean Winchester, a.k.a. Campbell, was On Holidays.

Things were looking good, too. Sam was here, Mom was here; Cas didn't have the freedom not to go teach his classes, but those only ran Tuesday to Thursday and he'd agreed to stay home on Friday and Monday instead of going to his office to grade his papers and work on his research, so he would be here too. And soon Charlie would arrive, in time for the baking to start in earnest.

Dean explained all that to his mom while they added the pumpkins they'd just carved to the ones already sitting in front of his house, thus bringing the final touch to the whole display. Afterwards they both stood at the end of the walk, looking at it. Dean was squinting, lips pursed and head tilted slightly to the side, gauging. In the end, he nodded decisively: it looked good. All that was left was wait for the night to ensure that it also worked in the dark, once it was all lit up.

He glanced over at his mom to see whether it had her approval too, but she was smiling a bit wistfully, miles away from the look of critical analysis he'd expected.

"Mom?" he asked prudently.

She glanced over at him and her smile widened. "You would've loved a house decorated like that when you were a kid," she said. "Even if it was only one you walked up to while trick-or-treating."

Dean nodded slowly, a bit uncertain. She was right, he'd always loved that shit, for as long as he could remember: Halloween pumpkins and lanterns and plastic bats, Christmas trees and baubles and tinsel… Not that there had been a lot of that when he was young, especially not after his parents' divorce. Mom hadn't been able to afford it. But now Dean could, and he'd be damned if he didn't revel in it and indulged.

Besides, he made a lot of that stuff himself, by hand: it was cheaper, and prettier, and often gave him the edge in their neighborhood competitions.

"Hopefully the kids on the street will like it too," he said.

Mary nodded, but still seemed half lost in memories. "You loved trick-or-treating too."

"Well, of course I did," Dean snorted. "I mean, free candies! What's not to like?"

"I remember you dragging Sam after you the minute he became old enough," she went on. "And then one year you told me you didn't want to go anymore, that Anne Sawyer was throwing a costume party and that you'd been invited—that's when I realized that you were already growing up. You weren't even a teenager yet, but still."

For a second Dean didn't know what to say. Mom seemed a bit melancholy, as if missing her little boy. Yet he couldn't apologize for getting older, could he?

"I didn't grow up _too much_ , though, I hope," he said, nudging his shoulder against hers.

She glanced at him, looked back at the house and seemed to really see it for the first time. She huffed.

"No," she said. "I guess you haven't."

 

*

 

On Saturday, Charlie arrived. There were cheers and hugs all around, until she reached Sam and pulled away from his embrace with a weirded-out look.

"You okay, Sam?" she asked, searching his face.

"I'm great," Sam replied with that zen-like smile he carried around for hours after coming back from the animal shelter. He'd been going since the beginning of the week, and if Dean hadn't known, if Sam didn't come back from it stinking of cats and dogs and rabbits, he would've suspected him to be smoking weed in secret instead he was so chill.

(Not that Dean would know. He'd never smoked weed. He and Cas totally did not occasionally roll a joint for old times' sake, philosophizing late into the night about the place of monsters in God's plan or in Earth's ecosystems, or about whether the Agency's efforts for the complete extermination of rugarus counted as an ecocide, like they'd done while in college. Because they hadn't. Totally hadn't.)

"Is this because your plan of breaking the internet is working?" Charlie asked warily.

When she was met by nothing but non-plussed gazes, she rolled her eyes and took out her phone. A couple of swipes and a little bit of typing later she'd found what she was looking for, and showed it to them.

It was a picture, posted on some sort of blog: Sam, sitting on the floor—Dean rolled his eyes in turn—, more or less swarmed by puppies whose attentions he was welcoming with a wide grin. There was a video, too, where he went from petting three Newfoundland puppies to being happily buried under a pile of dogs of various races in two minutes flat.

Apparently a lot of people were dying over that. Or so the commentaries said.

"Oh, yeah," Sam said, like he'd just remembered something. "Some teenagers came to the shelter the other day, looking for a cat to adopt. They asked if they could take a picture." When both Dean and Cas stared at him, waiting for him to realize that a video was much more than a simple picture, he just shrugged. "They were nice," he added, like it explained or justified anything.

"Just to warn you, they might start stalking you," Charlie pointed out. "This is the making of their internet fame."

Sam blinked at her. He didn't seem bothered, which was only confirmed when he said: "If it makes them happy."

Which was the point at which Dean decided that he was done with the bullshit.

"Okay, people," he said, clapping his hands. "We have the full house. Let's get this show on the road."

 

* *

 

Meanwhile, on the sunny terrace of a sprawling manor perched at the edge of a cliff on the East Coast, Rowena was enjoying one of the last good afternoons of the year. The sun rays brushing against her face were warm, the cushions covering her wicker chair soft, the wine she was sipping fine and almost as old as she was—French, perfectly preserved. She swallowed another mouthful and let out a happy little sigh.

The veranda door opened behind her. She didn't glance back, hoping that it was nothing. Unfortunately:

"My Lady," James, her servant, said, "A Toni Bevell is here to see you."

The name didn't ring any bell, but Rowena knew what time of the year it was. "Let me guess," she said, still not turning around, "a representative of the Men of Letters?"

She had to hand it to them: they were persevering. Every year, they tried. Every year, they sent someone. Every year, they hoped that, this time, she'd change her mind.

"Tell her I'm not here."

She frowned minutely when, instead of bowing and retreating to do just that, James met her request with silence. Awkward silence.

"What is it?" she asked. Her voice was still pleasant but with a threatening undercurrent.

"It's just…" James stammered. "My Lady, I already let her inside. She's waiting in the living room, she can probably see you through the French—" He gulped. "—windows."

This time Rowena had turned around. James quailed.

And to think, until that blundering mistake he'd been showing such promise. That was one of the many reasons Rowena disliked the 21th century: suddenly, it had become impossible to find competent house personal.

"Like I said," she said, more slowly, still staring him down. Then she turned away, snapped the fingers of her free hand—and suddenly in front of her a beach of white sand was spreading, leading down to a bright and clear blue sea. Overhead palm trees were rustling in the warm breeze, petrels crying as they flew. Rowena took another sip of her drink, which was now a fresh coconut with a straw, and let out another happy sigh. "I'm not here."

 

*

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is the tumblr post](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com/post/158317075291/coda-fic-the-lady-and-the-tramp-3) if you would like to reblog :)


End file.
